Saturday, May 25, 2013



They were Weslyan    she was Church   

after his father died (less dour)     she let him run wild  forawhile 

His father had   climbed up the mine shaft    and turning for home

there was a motorcycle spoiled    at the foot of a    wind

that was only ever darkness      there was punishment   of several sorts

it was a furniture van     sticks of a home burst on the road

this verse refers to      that verse    when we met in Keswick

they played  violins by ear  and called them fiddles   Irish Manx is different to Cumbrian Scots

he minded about things so destroyed photographs

in the front of Arabian Nights there had been   a coloured pencil drawing of her

soft hair

everything he did was complex   and tender and wrong like petals

trying   to carry rain

there had been a child before  him    who had  lived a day

and she    she too had hurried her     dreams    through    every tilt of grieving

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